over his feet. On his lips contentment, his eyes peacefully closed.
"Tommy," Ken called. He moved. Ken shook him. "Wake up!"
"What's up? What's the matter?" the boy asked, rising quickly from the bed.
"You rotten filthy pig!" Ken cried. "You stinking, disgusting, unclean bitch. Get the hell out of here. Pick up your things. Pick 'em up. Get out. Get out quick—before I kill you!"
"But why?"
"Don't you know? Don't you know what you've done to me?"
The boy seemed to understand. His blue wondering eyes filled with terror. Ken struck him, slapped him, tossed him to the floor, kicked him. He crouched, hands over head. "Don't, please don't!" he whined. "I—I thought it was all over. I didn't mean—I—oh, Ken—oh, I'm so sorry—"
"Get out!" Ken shrieked. "I don't want to kill you—I don't want to kill you!"
His own voice rose hysterically. He ran into the bathroom, locked the door. His shoulders, as he leaned against the wall, shook with the vast tidal flood of his emotion.
Drink, Dr. Murrell had said, would feed the enemy within. He must live temperately, sanely.
How, he asked himself, could he live at all? For many months he had earned nothing. If he had not stayed at his father's home during his period of recuperation, he would have been penniless long ago. Without money, he would have been helpless.
He had heard of Dr. Murrell's "bread-line," the back-
